Reports of Sexual Misconduct

Esther sat before the mirror. She had grabbed the Windex without much thought. She had been finishing the Pinot Grigio she had also used in the pasta sauce, but she was quite sure she would have ended up in front of the mirror with the same disgust anyway.

The funny thing in her gut was this--Esther knew she was not anything. She had met him once. Phoned a few times. Emailed to no response. He, however, had been everything. A CEO of change. A spiritual leader. So much more than she.

She remembered. He loved brownies—always offer him a brownie when he comes in, that will ensure a laugh. She didn’t care, but, now, she remembered. Offer him a brownie. She was smart enough never to actually do that. It was not her joke. He was not her friend. She was not looking for that. If she were, she would have probably scheduled more meetings for the organization. She didn’t care about that. Not when she knew what the organization was really about.

“This is an intellectual organization,” she had heard and guessed she was supposed to add that to her heart and share it with the people she spoke with on the phone. But they didn’t care either. They were intellectuals—smart enough to know what it was.

Esther had always followed the rules, with care. She was a self-admitted tattletale, but she only fessed up when it was important. In seventh grade, it was the beer her best friend had stashed in the backyard playhouse. She did everything the best proven way she knew how. She only purchased and drank French wine with an appreciation, less an understanding of taste, for the men and women who had protected it through war.

Now, there was nothing to tattle. The story had been all over the news, and it was so completely removed from her, there was no reason she should have needed the Windex.

Perhaps it was because she knew she would wake the next morning at the appropriate time. She would dress in her pinstripe slacks and the silk, cowl neck blouse she had found, surprisingly, at the Goodwill store. She would smile in the pleasure of both fashion defiance and creativity with the running flats she would add to the outfit until she reached her cubicle. But she knew all independence was lost with her shoes. After her shoes, she would pick up her phone. She would open her Outlook. This was her second month at this cubicle.

Esther sprayed the mirror again. She worked consciously against the edges she had missed before. Esther knew the Windex would still leave dirt. Dust would collect around areas in a casual defiance of her vigor. The paper towels would leave some lint. She sprayed and worked furiously, attempting to catch up with the drips of blue liquid climbing down the surface. And she sprayed again. Finally, Esther dropped the towels in a pile beneath the mirror, stood to see her full self and turned to go to bed.

Esther had always followed the rules. With care. He was not her friend. She knew what the organization was really about, but she would wake up the next morning. She would devote a few minutes to place the cleaner in the second bathroom cabinet and toss the used towels in the garbage. Be certain, she would find pleasure in her defiance. But she would take off her shoes.